


Just By The Side of Amsterdam

by shannedo



Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU - The Netherlands win the World Cup, Explicit Language, FIFA World Cup 2014, Gen, Netherlands National Team, The Arjen Robin bromance is strong in this one, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3423533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannedo/pseuds/shannedo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There isn't a precise formula needed to create World Champions. If there was, though, skill, strength, speed, stamina, a healthy dose of heart attacks and a dash of craziness sounds about right.</p><p>Or, the one where the Dutch National Team beat Argentina and go on to win the FIFA World Cup 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just By The Side of Amsterdam

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for an anonymous person who requested it on my tumblr! Thank you so much for the amazing idea, love. I'm so sorry it took so long! <3

It was stalemate.

No matter how hard they pushed, no matter how far they were forced, nothing gave. Nothing broke.

He thought something would finally break, he so desperately wanted it to be in their favour but it didn't and time marched on and on.

On and on, until the short water break between the two halves of extra time. Klaas had been playing for all of ten minutes and yet he could feel his bones aching. Creaking under the pressure on his shoulders.

He couldn't even imagine how the young defenders felt, worn out and clinging onto steely concentration and determination with all their might. Determined to hold out against the superior skill, stamina and strength of the Argentine attack. Arjen refused to flag, refused to show weakness, the band on his arm giving him strength rather than pulling him down. Even after one hundred and five goalless minutes, he kept calm and driven.

Jasper Cillessen was visibly distraught. Klaas caught him staring at him more than once, eyes nervously flitting over him, desperately wishing.

Klaas understood. He wasn't Robin van Persie - he'd spent his entire national career being taught that. He was also the final substitute and had taken away Jasper's chance of reprieve. If he couldn't do the job he was brought on to do, it could very well have disastrous effects on the young keeper.

"I shouldn't be here," he muttered, between long gulps from his water bottle. He had Robin to his right, Arjen to his left in the group circle. Robin looked around sharply, his greying curls still plastered to his forehead.

"What?"

"I shouldn't be playing. This is so ridiculous-" his words faltered. "I'm not the great Robin van Persie and I - I can't save penalties either. So what the fuck am I doing out here?" He snorted and took another drink.

Robin was visibly stunned, his brow crumpling. His skin was still pallid and sickly, he carried himself like he was being dragged down; the illness that had been plaguing him the entire tournament continued. But Klaas knew, deep down, that Robin had more chance of getting the job done that himself. He'd never readily thought that to himself before but the final was so close and he'd lost this tournament before. He never wanted to feel that again.

Lips that had been bitten and pulled at for the past month opened to shape words before another voice - to Klaas' left - spoke up.

"Do you think that's going to help us?" Arjen asked, looking more annoyed than upset. "That kind of thinking? That's how we lose this."

"We're not going to lose," Klaas snapped.

"Then don't speak like that," Arjen instructed him. "It takes one goal to win, ja? Make it happen. The Argentine right back - the kid - he's tiring. All the kids are, which is why we have to win this now. I'll run at him, fake cutting inside. If I'm right, he'll put too much into blocking me, then I'll get round the other side. I get the ball to you, you do the rest."

"But Romero-"

"Arjen is right, this is our best chance," Robin assured him. "If this works, don't give Romero the chance to save it." Klaas could feel it on his shoulders again, the mounting pressure. These two were intelligent tacticians, perfectly fine tuned to each other after years of playing as teammates, as opponents and being very close friends. How was he supposed to match up to them?

The referee had returned to the pitch now and play would soon resume. What little Van Gaal had said to them had made the message clear amongst the Oranje. Get the ball to Robben.

"Remember, Klaas. It only takes one break." Arjen squeezed his shoulder.

"And one goal," he said.

The team was moving now. Water bottles were returned to the coaching staff, Robin gave him and Arjen a clap on the back before returning to the dugouts. "When did I start wishing he would play instead of me," Klaas muttered under his breath and Arjen laughed.

The second half of extra time began with the blast of a whistle and Klaas stared down the defence, looking for gaps. It took everything in him to stop glancing at the little _Albiceleste_ menace with number 10 on his back. He took a deep breath and just played football.

Every time the ball drifted into the Dutch half, Klaas held his breath, just waiting for an accident. There was a moment where his heart faltered in his chest as Agüero picked up the ball on the right wing and Messi lingered just before the centre backs, waiting for the cross. Much to his relief, Daley was on the scene before the ball could even meet Agüero's boots a second time. With a bruising tackle that got him a booking, Daley saved his team from what could have been disaster.

The weight on Klaas' shoulders eased for a moment. He thought, for the first time, they could really do this.

The next pass - from Agüero to Messi - saw most players high up the pitch and the moment the magician picked up the ball, the Oranje ceased to breathe. What happened next, Klaas would remember for the rest of his life.

Messi's fancy footwork had him running past the waiting Wesley Sneijder but his movement strayed too close, as he seemingly underestimated the Dutch 10. Having practiced this one on one situation so many times before with Arjen in training, Wesley caught the ball when it was on Messi's weaker right foot. Then he was away, running up the pitch, pushing the advancing defence back until he dropped the ball right in front of Arjen.

Klaas hadn't even noticed Arjen drifting further towards the middle of the field until he was storming straight at the young Rojo. He forced his own body into action, carefully watching the last man whilst waiting for the pass.

Arjen faked to cut inside, the move he was known for and the exhausted right back fell hook, line and sinker. He threw his weight into blocking off the advancing winger and left Arjen just enough room to squeeze past on his other side.

Then came the cross. The ball was chipped high into the air but went with clear intent. The second the resounding thump of Arjen's kick came, Klaas abandoned his marker and ran with all the energy and might he had left, coming to the corner of the box just as the ball started to drop before him.

Panic struck him as he saw Zabaleta and Demichelis advancing on him rapidly. Romero's focus had switched from his teammate to him and he stood, big and strong, daring Klaas to slip one past him.

What happened next was instinct. There was no time or space to dribble the ball, waiting for Arjen's help at the far post. So he brought his right foot down on the ball just as it dropped before him, striking it with painful force.

The volley soared and bounded off the far post and for one sickening moment, he thought that he'd wasted his only chance.

However, the ball struck the inside of the post.

The rest, you could say, was history.

 

* * *

 

_"The Netherlands join Germany in the 2014 FIFA World Cup final after a sensational volley from Klaas-Jan Huntelaar - the Hunter - in extra time."_

 

* * *

The first thing Arjen was aware of when the final whistle came was the aching pain in his legs. He’d been pushing so hard for so long, until he felt like he had nothing left to give, nothing left to try. He had been aching all over but he refused to let it show.

It had just taken that little bit of desperation, that sudden surge of adrenaline. He’d went bolting at Rojo with all he had left, his lungs, his legs, his feet scorching like the pitch was made of smouldering coals. And it had worked - how had it worked?

Just as he was trying to make sense of the last fifteen minutes, someone clashed into him, their arms like a vice around him, squeezing the life out of him. He could feel heat and sweat rolling off of them and was about to turn around to find out who it was when another body collided with them. Then another and another.

The noise in the arena felt a mile away and he couldn’t make sense of a single word. He felt like he was pitched underwater, distorting all sound and sight he could even distinguish from the euphoria that was sending his exhausted body into shock.

The arms around him slackened and he gently pulled away, giving his attackers - Wesley, Daley, Bruno, Jasper - a wave before finding Klaas, who was desperately trying to get to him. “Thank god you made that," He said, laughing before he pulled Klaas into a stifling hug.

"Oh my god," Klaas slurred, so loudly Arjen jumped. "Oh my fucking god."

"You did it, Klaas. It was you," Arjen told him, resting his head on his teammate’s shoulder out of pure exhaustion.

"And you!" Klaas exclaimed, horrified. "It was you! You crossed the ball. You… You trusted me-"

"Of course I did," he said. "Of course I did."

The water drowning his every sense was receding like the tide and noise was piercing his eardrums, electrifying his shocked body. The stands were alive, a sea of orange bouncing up and down, singing and chanting. He disengaged himself from Klaas, looked to them and waved. Their energy was trickling into the exhausted Dutch side, giving them a new lease of life as they joined in the celebrations.

Everything was so bright and his eyes were burning. The atmosphere made his head fuzzy, the noise made his bones buzz, the intensity and emotions of the moment were seeping through his skin, giving him a new lease of life, squeezing his heart and heating his cheeks. The tightly wound muscles of his arm coiled almost without him knowing and he punched the air, a roar, coming from his lips and piercing the humid air of the arena.

Every breath he drew laboured his chest, his lungs, flooded with his own elation.

Long, bony arms circled his torso and pulled him back into a solid, warm body. The elated rambling in his ear was clearly Robin. The older man sounded odd when he spoke Dutch now, his tongue struggling to fit around vowels and sounds after years of disuse. His "G"s were often hard where they shouldn't be, he visibly struggled when his vowels slipped into the English way but now - now, the victory was making Robin's mouth practically trip over itself. Words were tumbling out in English, Dutch, Dutch-sounding English and English-sounding Dutch and it made no sense. Shouts of the witty English chants that he loved so much, "Hup Holland Hup!", "Wij zijn Oranje!"

Arjen was laughing at his friend now and turned around in his arms to give him a bone crushing hug. "We did it, van Persie!" he shouted, struggling over the combined din of the arena and Robin.

"I knew you could do it," Robin told him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "I knew as soon as you picked up the ball - that this was it!"

"We're in the final."

"We're in the fucking final, Arjen Robben!"

He laughed, hugged his friend again and cast a glance over his shoulder. He saw Bernadien and Luka, in the stands, celebrating and laughing. His wife held their son and when she spotted him, looking over, she waved to him. She pointed to him and Luka turned his head around so fast Arjen nearly cringed. His heart nearly burst when Luka's face lit up and he waved at him so energetically Arjen feared for a moment that he might accidently jab his mother with his elbow. "Pappa! Pappa!" His son mouthed and Arjen felt his heart clench, a wave of raw emotion rise in his chest as he tried to shock his legs back into action.

Before he knew it, Van Gaal was right beside the duo, his face set like stone. As ever. Robin was still scanning the crowd for Dina Layla and Shaqueel when their manager spoke, "A word, gentlemen. Please." It wasn't a request but a demand.

After the stab of disappointment at not getting to hold his son was gone, Arjen nodded, searching Robin's distracted brown eyes for his agreement too. Robin tore himself away from his search for his children and nodded too, looking to their manager to see what he had to say.

But Van Gaal just turned on his heel and  stalked back off towards the dugouts. Robin looked to Arjen, who just shrugged and the two of them followed. They followed their manager on stiff, wooden legs back up the tunnel and into the dressing rooms, which were still vacant. The ones next door - the Argentine ones - were occupied, judging by the hushed, slow voices and the occasional clatter of studs on the floor.

Once safely inside the changing rooms - which the boys had "improved" by draping Dutch flags and expanses of orange fabric everywhere - Van Gaal turned to his two captains. His eyes didn't betray whether he was happy or not. He looked ready to get down to business and Arjen had to stifle a groan. He was exhausted. But this was what captaincy was, so he would suck it up.

"Take a seat, gentlemen." Robin and Arjen sat down next to each other, where they'd gotten changed just a few short hours ago. Arjen couldn't help but feel thirteen again, gazing up at his coach, mentally preparing himself for whatever berating would follow. "Thank you for all your hard work today. You gave it everything you had - that was obvious. And you are both extremely capable and effective captains, which is why we're here now."

Robin nodded, Arjen just bit his lip.

"We can't play a hundred and twenty minutes versus the Germans. We were exhausted and flagging today - our cracks were showing. This German side is a well oiled machine and exhaustion won't set in for them until long after the final whistle. They're more efficient than us, they won't tire themselves out quickly," Van Gaal stated. Arjen had to agree. Their team was a mix of young boys and veterans, most of them lacked the stamina to hold out a side like Germany for extra time.

"Well, what do we do then?" Robin asked, a bit confused as to where this was going. So was Arjen.

Van Gaal looked to Arjen, as if he was to know, and held his gaze expectantly. Arjen made a sound. "We come out the blocks... all guns blazing. Score early and defend like a stone wall."

"We can't score early against the Germans - they're too strong, resilient! Besides, I'm not sure I want to park the damn bus in a World Cup final-"

"Is it the worst thing we've done in a World Cup final?" Arjen questioned, earning raised eyebrows from his friend. "I don't want to do that either - I hate parking the bus, it's not proper football. You should defend through strength and skill, not getting as many bodies in the way as you can - but do we have much choice?"

"This is even assuming that we - me and you, to be crystal clear - can score early against Neuer, Boateng, Lahm, Höwedes, Hummels... do you see what I'm getting at here? It is a fucking stone wall, Arjen."

"Spain were supposedly impenetrable too!"

"There's a difference! Spain were living off of former glory, Germany have been tried and tested by some of the best attacks in the world in the past few weeks. Cristiano Ronaldo couldn't get past Philip Lahm on his own, for fuck's sake-"

"Do you honestly think we're not good enough, Robin? Because I had this conversation with Klaas about half an hour ago and look how that turned out. I've been having this conversation with journalists for months now. The world didn't think we were good enough to get this far and look at us now, Robin. Germany may well be a fucking machine but we've got something too."

Robin snorted in disbelief, dragging a hand through his sweat dampened curls. "And what's that?" he asked, casting a sidelong glance at his old friend.

Arjen was sad that Robin didn't know it himself - he'd never took his friend for a pessimist. He'd been so happy to win this match but did Robin truly believe that this was the end of the road for them? "Passion," he asserted. "Drive. No one can question that. We want this so badly that there's nothing we won't do to get it. I think we showed that to the world four years ago but this time, we get it right."

"You think Germany don't want this?"

"Of course they want it. But we want it more - we have more cause to want it, need it. In the end, that will give us the edge. That extra spur of speed, that extra yard, that extra power," he told his friend, his own certain, strong eyes holding the gaze of the trusting brown ones. "That's how we win. Believe it, Robin."

The corners of the older man's mouth twitched. "I believe you," he said.

There was a moment of silence between them, filled by comforting trust. But it was rudely shattered. "As heart-warming as that was, believe it or not, _wanting_ to win really really bad is not a tactic. So."

"Oh dear god, I'm exhausted," Robin stammered. "And I need to find a toilet before I throw up."

"And I want to hold my son," Arjen added, "And if I have to keep my eyes open for much longer I might just pass out."

There was a moment of shock and disbelief from Van Gaal. Then he cracked a smirk. "Fine," he breathed, rolling his eyes at them. "Go rest."

"Bless your heart," Robin mumbled before staggering off to the toilets. Arjen gave his manager his thanks then went off after his captain, ready to rub his back soothingly and brave the stench of sick.

 

* * *

 

Robin woke up early on the morning of the 13th, bleary eyed. He arched his back, where he lay on his bed and groaned at the satisfying stretch of his back. He yawned and pushed himself up to sit, rubbing his eyes before turning to his wife -

Right. He was in Rio, in the team hotel, in a double bed to himself - which he couldn't complain about, honestly. In the other double bed a few short metres away was Arjen, still sleeping soundly like a little princess.

Suddenly, Robin did a double take. It was the 13th. The thirteenth day of July. July 13th 2014. Holy shit.

"Arjen!" he shout-whispered, trying to wake his majesty. When no reply came, he unceremoniously lobbed a pillow at his friend's head. "Arjen!"

"Ugh," the younger man groaned. "Wut-eh fuck, van Persie," he mumbled.

"What time is it?"

"De fucking arse crack of dawn, domkop."

"No need to be dramatic."

"Godverdomme. Check your phone."

"It's in the kitchen."

A bald head peeked out from under the masses of covers and pillows - Arjen didn't sleep peacefully. "Well then get onto your rickety ass, fragile, bird bone legs and-"

"Your phone is right there!"

The younger man groaned and stretched an arm out for the mobile phone in question, giving a yelp of pain when the bright screen positively scorched his eyes. "It's 6am. Go the fuck back to sleep."

Robin snorted, pushing himself up out of bed. "How could I?"

Arjen groaned. "The match doesn't start for 11 damn hours, the bus doesn't come for us for another 8 hours and we can't do shit until then."

"Whatever. I'm going for a run."

"Robin. You know how important this is," Arjen sounded awake now and Robin turned back to him. "Don't tire yourself. Your health is very important."

"I appreciate the concern," Robin told him, finding training shorts and a shirt. "But I feel alive today. Rejuvenated. Like a spring chicken. I feel good today, Arjen. It's a sign!"

Arjen groaned loudly, gave up and shoved his face back into his pillow. "Why did I agree to room with you," Robin thought he heard. He chuckled and changed his clothes, hearing soft snoring before he'd even finished.

He let himself out of the hotel as inconspicuously as possible and had to laugh when the sleepy receptionist jumped at his cheery greeting. The beach front was beautiful at this time in the morning, the air comfortably warm and crisp. The sun baked paving below his feet was warming in the lazy sun that was just waking up, looming low in the sky. Robin opened up his run when he came onto the smooth paving before the gorgeous stretch of the beach. For the first time in what felt like forever, his body responded in full and his muscles stretched.

To feel his legs pumping, working and his lips drawing deep breath after deep breath was liberating. His lungs expanded to their full and his stomach was calm. The only thing tainting his mind and sight was the remains of his sleep, still clinging on.

He ran for what only felt like a few minutes but when he glanced back over his shoulder he realised he'd left most of the city behind. Smiling, he slowed down to a soft jog, then to a walk and meandered off the smooth path and onto the sand.

The sky was still bathed in soft orange  and the water was calmly lapping at the shores as he kicked off his running shoes and pulled off his socks. The soft white sand felt silky under his toes and a slight sea breeze wafted up the shore. He wandered over to a cabana whose owner had just arrived and leaned on the counter.

"Beautiful morning, isn't it?" he said, hoping the Brazilian man even spoke a lick of English.

The man looked confused to start with, still opening the till and turning appliances on. Then, his eyes darted between Robin's face, his easy going smile and the badge upon his chest and widened in recognition. "It is!" he said with a broad grin. "Can I get you something, Senhor van Persie?"

"Water, please," Robin answered, pulling some change out of his pocket.

The man fetched a bottle from the fridge for him and took the change with a smile. "Good luck, Senhor. Brasil thanks you."

"We are very grateful for your country's hospitality," Robin assured him. "Thank you."

Meandering down the beach and sipping his water, Robin could feel the slight wind breezing through his curls. He left his shoes in the sand and took a seat in the sand, his legs stretched out in front of him so that the cool, salty water lapped over his toes. He smiled to himself, taking in the beauty of Rio and stretching out on the sand.

Today was a good day - Robin felt a certain conviction in his heart.

 

* * *

 

There was music streaming through his headphones as he got off the bus, sports bag slung over his shoulder. The Maracana was big, so big. Some 3000 seats larger than Old Trafford and it would be his stage tonight. He could only hope he gave a good performance. 78,838 - that's how many seats there were. He'd had the time to look it up, in the time between returning to the hotel and being called for the bus to the stadium. Most of that time had been spent in the conference room with his team, making good use of dry wipe markers and waste paper bins.

His mind felt wired, coursing with electricity as he thought of their ideas, brainstorming, tactics, game plan. Granted, there had been some unflattering pictures of the Germans drawn when their minds began to drift just before lunch but other than that, it had all been work, anticipation, preparation. If Schweinsteiger so much as sneezed, Robin knew what he was to do. Okay, maybe not a sneeze - he wasn't going to get the man a tissue - but all the possibilities they could pull out of their nervous, slightly hysterical minds had been considered and evaluated.

They knew what to do if the team sheet was what they suspected Joachim Löw would put forward. They knew what to do if there were unexpected changes. Hell, they even knew what to do if Neuer was deposited in the midfield and Müller decided he'd try his luck between the sticks.

Admittedly, Robin knew it was all in vain, as no one would ever be as ready and prepared as the Germans. Robin suspected they'd been spending the days since the semi final learning his stats, his style of play, the way he ticked inside out. He had no doubt Arjen's Bayern Munich teammates had confessed what his strengths and weaknesses were and how exactly to push him out of his comfort zone. It was unavoidable, really but Robin was still a firm believer in Arjen's words.

The Oranje were a living, breathing unit with flaws and weak spots - like any other team - but they had unrivalled passion. The Germans would hear them roar.

Besides, Arjen and Robin had spoken at great length about one fatal flaw in the German side that the two of them could flaunt like they were born to. Mats Hummels and Benedikt Höwedes were strong and competent defenders, yes, but their size and muscular prowess meant speed was a weak point. They were slower than the average defenders and a hell of a lot slower than Arjen Robben.

When inside the changing rooms, he saw his kit, proudly hung up on the wall. The captain's armband was on the hanger and his heart grew quick and unsteady in his chest. He grinned and set about getting changed.

He was in his kit and tracksuit when the manager arrived with the team sheet. His heart was in his mouth, even though the captain's armband was already on his arm. _You're not getting dropped, dumbass,_ he thought.

The names were read out, no big surprises, although young Stefan looked ready to fall off the bench when he was told he was playing. Robin smiled but quickly bit the inside of his mouth when Danny Blind arrived with the German team sheet.

It was nothing short of heart stopping to hear those names - famous names that made any footballer worth his salt swallow hard - read out, in the definite formation of the men they'd soon face. "Neuer in goals. Boateng on the left-" Arjen blustered out a breath he'd been holding. "-Höwedes and Hummels at centre back, Lahm on the right." Robin nodded calmly. "In front of them, Schweinsteiger, Kramer and Kroos. Then, to make up the front line, Klose playing through the middle with Müller and Özil on either side."

Any kind of excitement that had been felt by the younger boys was drained in a flash and Robin wasn't doing so well either. It was only when Arjen clapped him on the shoulder and told everyone to get onto the pitch and get warming up that he felt that gut instinct again. They could do this.

The warm up was fairly quiet and intense, especially when their opposition joined them on the field, looking even more focused than they did. Arjen didn't even spare his teammates a smile and a wave, too busy concentrating on the job at hand.

When he got his blood pumping and his brain geared into action, Robin felt his confidence creep back into him. He spotted Dina, Shaqueel and Bouchra in the crowd, smiling and waving to him. He smiled back, promised himself he'd hug and kiss them all later, no matter what happened and he focused on getting his muscles going.

He was being summoned back down the tunnel all too quickly, discarding his training gear in the dressing room as alarm crept back into his system like an unwanted guest that just refused to leave. Just as he'd finished stripping off his bottoms and his track jacket, his luminous orange kit on display now, he noticed young Daley standing by his spot on the bench. Pale, bony hands quivered as he struggled to undo the zip on his jacket.

Robin's heart ached for the boy and he went over, calmly placating Daley's shaking hands with one of his own. Being strong for others was helping him stay calm himself. He undid Daley's zip and helped the boy out of the jacket, giving his upper arms a squeeze when he discarded the item of clothing. "You will play amazingly, Daley. You will make everyone proud," he assured the young man. He got an uncertain smile and a soft "thanks" in return and he ruffled the boy's unruly locks before leading him out of the changing rooms.

Wandering down the long corridor to the tunnel, he passed Jordy Clasie and clapped him on the back. When he reached the tunnel, he gave every assembled player a word of reassurance and a clap on the back as he passed. "You don't need to tell me how amazing I'll be," Arjen assured him. "I already know." They both laughed at that.

He stopped at the front of his assembled team, just in front of the ever stoic Jasper, whose only movement was his jaw. Forever chewing gum, this boy. When Robin moved in front of him, he was first scared that the young man was just barely holding it together. But blue eyes met his and the goalie gave him a wink. That was more reassuring than any joking statement from Arjen.

Philip Lahm was just across the way from him and Robin gave him a smile and shook his hand. They didn't have a common language but Robin knew their respect for each other transcended such barriers. Neuer stood just behind the German captain, his massive hands clamped like vices over his gloves. He looked even taller and even stronger in person and his unflinching focus on the mouth of the tunnel that led to the Maracana stadium was a testament to the man's professionalism.

Robin blustered out a breath, ready to stop looking and to stop worrying. He was ready to go, to run, to play football, to do what he was born to do. The arrival of the officials meant he was just moments from doing so. In a matter of moments, both teams trooped down to the end of the tunnel and out into the biggest stage they'd ever played on.

The Maracana was even bigger than he'd anticipated and on the big screens was the truly picturesque sight of Christ the Saviour, bathed in the light of the setting sun. Robin let out a long breath, let his eyes flutter closed for a second, then a steely mask of focus overcame him. The grass was a stunning green under his boots, his ears already adjusting to the roaring of the crowds. There, on the podium, was the beautiful trophy itself.

Words came back to him, words he'd reiterated to his team in the changing room not minutes ago.

"If you ever feel too tired to go on, imagine walking past that trophy, but you can't touch it."

He was so desperate to feel the cool metal under his fingertips, to be the first Dutchman to ever raise it, to kiss it. In that moment, he knew.

He'd win this match if it killed him.

He sung his national anthem with all the energy he needed rid of to play at his best. He shook the Germans' hands, he took the team photo and he met with Lahm again for the coin toss.

Germany would start the match and as they took their positions on the field, Robin felt the rest of the world fall away. All that mattered now was the ball, the goals and the other twenty one men on the pitch.

Kroos passed to Schweinsteiger from the centre to start the match. Time had started ticking and Robin was sure he'd do everything in his power to win.

Wijnaldum dispossessed Müller as he strayed dangerously close to the box. He made a long pass to De Jong and the Dutch were given their first opportunity to stretch their legs. The ball was passed back to Daley, who weaved up the left wing to pass to Kuyt, who came dangerously close to giving away the ball with a slightly off target pass to Wesley. Sneijder made a daring onslaught, heading straight for the Höwedes-Hummels wall and was quickly dispatched by the former, who played the ball back to Schweinsteiger.

For a long time, this was how the match carried on. Cautious, testing attacking followed by efficient defending and the other team's chance to test the waters. They quickly learned that the powerful front line of Klose, Özil and Müller would be too dangerous if Daley strayed too far up the wing, stretching the back line thin and they came into a more cautious style of play as the first half ticked on. He barely got a touch of the ball, watching carefully to see openings in the German ranks.

They were coming up on half an hour gone when De Jong was dispossessed near the touch line and Daley was forced to rush forward to stop Klose getting the ball in a dangerous position. He slid to the ground to dispossess Kramer but there wasn't enough Oranje support nearby. The ball rolled to Schweinsteiger's feet, who pushed forward until he was able to pass to Kroos. This turned into a swift long pass to Müller, who was lingering near a dangerous gap in the Oranje defence and the tall man took the ball and ran with it.

What Robin had always loved about Thomas Müller was his ability to make a goal out of absolutely nothing. Dread settled in his stomach as his brain gave him that thought.

Müller was at the corner of the box before the defence even knew what was happening and he chipped the ball up, towards the far goal post. Klose broke ranks and powered forwards but his path was blocked by the ready and waiting Jasper Cillessen.

But Robin could almost hear the gears in Klose's head churning and the ball was headed back across the gaping mouth of the goal.

He wasn't awfully sure where the hell Mesut Özil just appeared from but he dispatched of his opportunity clearly and concisely.

The Germans went one up on the Dutch.

Robin threw his arms down by his sides, his head hanging and his fists clenching as he dragged one foot after the other, back to the centre circle. Arjen joined him there with the ball at his feet, trying to catch his eye. "Robin!" he called, causing his captain to jolt and look up. "What now?"

Of course Arjen knew what now, knew it in his bones but he was prompting his friend to be a captain, to lead. Robin made a mental note to be grateful for Arjen later, when all was said and done. Now, he had to lead just as he always did - by example.

Despite the deficit weighing heavily on his shoulders and a very real fear clenching his stomach in his vice, he kept fighting. Arjen passed him the ball and he passed it on to Wesley, who was in a high position on the pitch and who's mind was already whirring with ideas. That was the benefit of years of experience with these boys - they could read each other at a glance.

After that, they played with less caution, less fear. The braver approach meant that the Germans were able to penetrate further into their half when they had the ball but their every chance was scarpered by bold defending and even bolder goalkeeping and parried by even bolder counter attacking.

But their hurried attempts and all out sprinting was all for naught, as it seemed it would be harder to push the German defence back than they initially thought.

Time ticked on, as it always did and the next thing Robin knew, they were looking at finishing the first half, one down. So he pushed harder.

A quick pass from Kuyt to Blind saw the young left back racing up the wing, swerving past Bastian Schweinsteiger - the _fußballgott_ of all people - as if he was nothing and made a strong pass to Wesley. Ready to spring, Robin drifted to the left and kept glancing back as he advanced on the defence. Then, something clicked and Robin was sprinting forwards, Wesley not far behind him, Arjen to their far right, his foot on the gas pedal. Robin's muscles pumped and pumped until he found himself coming up on the corner of the box. Hummels slid straight for Wesley's feet but the Dutchman saw him coming and threw himself airborne just in time. He spied Robin in the box, marked by Lahm and he passed right, to Arjen. Having a bit of difficulty with Boateng, Arjen cushioned the fast pass on the inside of his right foot, faked right and then left before finally deciding on playing the ball straight through Boateng's firmly planted legs.

The movement worked and he swerved around his Bayern teammate with amazing speed. He got the ball back on his left foot and delivered a low, fast cross across the now densely populated box, heading straight for Robin. It was too low, however, as Höwedes got his head to it, giving a sharp header back to Kroos.

Robin felt a stab of disappointment in his chest but in all the excitement of Arjen's ever fancy footwork, he hadn't noticed Daley had arrived back on the scene. Neither had Kroos either, judging by the way he turned, leaving the ball exposed.

The young boy with hair as wild as the lion on his chest skilfully dispossessed Kroos and in his alarm, Robin rushed forward, ready for Daley's pass. Arjen started moving too and Wesley made his presence known.

What happened next was not what anyone was expecting.

Daley's leg was slow and powerful when it swung back and his muscles contracted and his entire body braced as he brought his foot down on the ball with all his might. The strike was strong and true and so unexpected that even the great Manuel Neuer was caught unaware.

Daley Blind scored a thirty yard screamer and took off, running to the corner and sliding along the grass, shouting and screaming in celebration. Robin was the first to clash into him, picking him up and swinging him around like a rag doll.

"Yes! Yes, Daley!" he shouted. "Fucking hell. That was stunning!"

"God, did that just happen?"

"What are you calling me God for? You're God! That was godly, dammit," Robin blabbered, watching with glee as the scoreline changed to 1-1.

Half time came not long after, with no one really recovering from the belter Daley had unleashed. "Where were you hiding that, huh?" Arjen asked, laughing as he ruffled the kid's hair in the changing rooms.

Robin laughed as Jasper unceremoniously pushed past him, grabbing his Ajax teammate from behind and twirling him around. "Daley, you little beauty!" he gushed excitedly, making Robin and Arjen laugh.

"Can people please stop doing that?" Daley asked. "I'm getting motion sickness!"

Jasper laughed. "Too bad," he said, taking his turn in ruffling the mane. Every time Daley had to fix his hair, he did it with even more petulance. "You should have told me you can do that!"

"I've done it before!" Daley protested.

"Ja, against Willem II, not against the German National Team in the damn world cup final, domkop," Jasper corrected him, grinning when Daley wrinkled his nose indignantly.

"Okay, as amazing as that was," Arjen said, voice booming over the general changing room commotion. "We still have a job to do. We keep playing fast attacking football, we use our strength where we need to because those last fifteen minutes had more chances for us than the rest of the first half."

"I agree with Arjen," Robin seconded. "Keep playing fast and strong. And whatever you do," he added, as an afterthought, "Don't let Müller break.

Van Gaal debriefed them on what went well in the first half, what wasn't so good and what they needed to do now. Robin felt electricity bubbling under his skin once more as he returned to the pitch. He was ready to fight to the end.

The Germans had regrouped after Daley's shocker and they were pressing them harder than they had in the first half. Robin felt the tension, saw the back line stretch as Klose pressed and pressed. It seemed like it was all a bit much for the old legend though, who didn't look quite the pillar of strength and skill Robin had spent his national career fearing.

The substitution came when Bruno kicked out a threat imposed by Müller. Three at once, as Nigel De Jong came off for Jordy Clasie. Then, devastatingly, the concussed Christoph Kramer was substituted off for Andre Schürrle and Miroslav Klose came off for Mario Götze. The legend clapped for his side as he left the pitch for the last time in the National Team's jersey and the young boy Arjen had warned him about ran on. He was fresh legs in a match that was wearing them all down and Vlaar was eyeing him like he was personally offended by him. The Germans looked as threatening as ever.

Their fears were realised when Götze forced the back line backwards nearly singlehandedly, dribbling with the confidence and finesse of someone far older than him. In their wariness of Götze, the defence's concentration on Müller lapsed for just a second. But it was enough and he ran rampant with it. Götze slid a well placed forward pass through the defence and Müller was on it in an instant, the only person separating him and the netting was Jasper.

The Dutch goalie could hardly be faulted in his response when Müller let a devastatingly strong strike loose. Jasper got his fingers to it but it was too powerful and the ball found the top right corner. The score turned to 2-1 and there was a feeling of desperation in Robin as Germany celebrated. Would they be chasing this game until the very end?

Their concentration and stamina lapsed for the minutes afterwards as they dug a little deeper for something else to give. In this momentary bout of frustration and exhaustion, Özil fired one over the bar and Robin was forced to wake up and realise how close they just came to losing everything.

He gave his head a valiant shake as Jasper retrieved the ball. He trotted further into the centre of the field, subtly gesturing for Arjen to do the same. It was time to try what they'd been strategising. Running at Lahm and Boateng was like running at pissed off predators, they were too skilled and strong to get past. So they'd run at the brick wall instead. At least a brick wall can't punch back.

Jasper's goal kick soared high over heads and Wesley cushioned it back to the back line, who slowly kicked it about, forcing that little higher up the pitch with every pass. Robin blustered out a breath as Daley broke ranks and kicked the ball forward to Kuyt. He and Arjen braced, waiting for the pass through to Wesley. It came and they were off, running with all their might. Wesley passed to Daley on the left, who passed back. Then, Wesley belted the ball to Arjen, who ran with all his might after it. He was behind Hummels now and he made a strong pass to Robin.

But Höwedes arrived just in time to get his foot in the way and shoot the ball far over the bar. Their chance was gone but they had a corner.

Robin positioned himself a few metres from the far post, marked by Höwedes and he braced himself, nonchalantly pushing his marker's hand off of his chest whenever the man put it there. Wesley positioned himself, keen eyes watching and he looked to Robin at the last second. Robin knew what that meant in an instant and inconspicuously slipped back a few feet, giving a slight smile when Höwedes failed to notice. The other Germans were blocking off Arjen and Daley - amusingly enough. He let out a deep breath.

There was the sound of the ball clattering off of Wesley's boot and the near perfect kick soared high as Robin sprinted forwards, heading for the far post. He pushed himself up into the air, frighteningly high and struck the ball with his head at just the right moment.

He heard the rustle of the net, panicked when the goal posts rushed towards him and managed to get himself out of harm's way just in time. Then, he was up and roaring, running with his teammates.

2-2, with the clock ticking down.

He felt like they were just waiting for the German counter after that, resigned to chase this match, just like they had been the entire time.

But no one expected Arjen Robben.

Thank god they didn't.

Arjen picked up the ball somewhere near the halfway line and he ran with it, legs pumping in that way that literally no one else in the modern game could even wish to rival. Robin waited by the back line, ready to break forwards but it never came. He watched Arjen's tell tale cut into the left and he knew exactly what would happen now. He zipped past Boateng like he wasn't even there, cut right through the middle of Höwedes and Hummels. Then, he was one on one with Manuel Neuer, in a situation that was eerily like what it had been four years ago.

This time, Arjen got the end to justify his means. This time, with a truly beautiful strike that even Neuer would have had difficulty getting a finger to, he netted the ball in spectacular fashion. Robin's throat was hoarse with screaming, he feared he might have hugged his friend so tightly he hurt him.

The score was 3-2 and they would hold onto this with all their might.

There was one terrifying moment when Götze was practically free on goal and ready to deliver a beautiful goal. But out of nowhere popped up Daley Blind, teaming up with Jasper to clear the ball off the line. In a panic, Stefan sent the ball way past the touchline, resulting in a German throw in at a relatively safe distance.

They were safe for now. Robin saw Daley's relief in the way he clung to Jasper's shirt for a moment, just breathing and gathering his composure.

The back three slash four turned into a solid four slash five, with Daley still drifting when he was needed and Robin and Arjen put all their effort into stemming German attacks early on.

The minutes ticked on. The desperate final German substitution came - Podolski for Özil - but amazingly, it made no difference. The clinical finisher failed to have much of an effect. Seconds turned to minutes. Safety felt sweet.

It was when they entered added time that Robin realised that this was it, they were a hair's breadth from the end. From victory, from being world champions. From being the first ever Dutch side to raise that beautiful trophy.

Robin would never ever forget that moment that three blasts of the whistle pierced the air. Everything after was something of a blur.

He collapsed to his knees. His head fell to the grass. Tears ran, hot and wet. He clutched the captain's armband. The world had stopped spinning - everything had stopped. It was just pure elation now.

He remembered glimpses of things. Hugging Arjen so hard for so long his friend had to actually tell him to get off. Practically sobbing into Klaas' jacket. Parading Jordy around like a proud mother. Shaking Van Gaal's hand.

He shook the hand of every German player he could as they returned to the pitch with their second place medals, he saw his wife and children and he felt Danny guiding him to the back of the line of Oranje players. "You ready for this?" Arjen asked him, in the middle of a bought of hysterical laughter.

Robin looked up the dizzyingly tall steps of the Maracana that led to his medal and the best prize of all, the trophy. "Fuck's sake, man, I was born ready!" He replied, laughing.

His legs burned as he went up step after step, feeling people try to just lay a finger on him, hearing people shouting to him, singing his name. There was wildfire spreading through him and the ever present crackle of electricity and energy too. The last step came, he shook some hands of people he couldn't really be bothered to figure out who they were right now and there was a medal around his neck.

Then, there it was. Glittering on a podium. Beckoning him. His heart ached in his chest and he felt a shock of nervousness, his stomach rolling. Not now, he thought. He couldn't throw up all over the god damn trophy.

When the cool metal first grazed the skin of his sweating palms, his first thought was _"Shit, I'm going to drop it!"_ Thankfully, he managed to not do that.

His teammates let him to the very front of their group, already bouncing on their toes. He braced himself, feeling the weight of the thing in his hands. Then he took a deep breath, counted to three and thrust his arms upwards. The roaring around him was unbelievable, a lot of it coming from his own mouth.

He roared as loud as he could, even though his throat protested for him to stop. He bounced on his toes, on the balls of his tired feet, his entire body electric.

He was a World Champion. They were World Champions. The pride in his chest was overwhelming.

He had done it. He'd felt it and he'd done it.

The Dutch, the Oranje, the Netherlands. Champions of the World.

 

* * *

 

Shaqueel ran at his father's legs and nearly toppled him over in his excitement. Dina Layla planted a big, wet kiss on her father's cheek. Bouchra hugged Robin so tightly, her head pressed into the crook of his neck and Robin's heart swelled in his chest, threatening to burst with love.

Kai and Lynn were flown over to Brazil for the final; Kai was resting on his dad's chest, his arms thrown around his neck and Lynn had been delighted when Daley had let her play with his hair. Luka and Shaqueel were taking turns holding the magnificent trophy and instead of prising it away whenever they needed a photo, the Oranje would just take a photo with the happy little boys. Robin's favourite was probably the picture of Shaqueel on Klaas' shoulders, holding the trophy aloft with Luka in Klaas' arms, nearly elbowing him in the face in his need to touch the prize again.

There was something about Arjen getting a ball made of gold, he wasn't awfully sure, he was too drunk when he found out.

Only kidding, of course. He'd practically attacked Arjen when he found out, crushing every bone in his body that remained untouched by the previous bone crushing hugs.

But hey, it wasn't every day that Daley Blind scored a thirty yard belter, you got to lift the World Cup trophy as the captain of your national team and your best friend beat Lionel Messi to win the damn Golden Ball. Robin intended to enjoy it, thank you very much.

And that, he did.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I like domkop. It literally translates to "blockhead" which is my new favourite insult.  
> I really hope you guys enjoyed. I have to apologise for typos, errors or downright bad writing, I wrote the last 4k of this in about 2 hours and my brain is fried! I absolutely loved writing it though. Thank you so much, nonnie, for the prompt!  
> As always, comments and kudos are muchos appreciated! And if you have something you'd like me to write, you need only ask me on my [tumblr.](http://www.ryangiggs-11.tumblr.com)! (Disclaimer: this took me a long ass time due to school and other commitments!)


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